


today i woke and believed in nothing

by fab_ia



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: M/M, Murder, Non-Explicit Sex, This is weird, but i mean its kepler so do with that what you will, it's gay and kepler is messed up and so is jacobi but kepler More So, religion... kink?, religious idolisation?????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 13:40:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17919872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fab_ia/pseuds/fab_ia
Summary: "your God smiles at you and calls you “warren”, gives you a job and gets you outta the rut and down to florida. you get to work and He smiles at you."





	today i woke and believed in nothing

mama always said that god was everywhere and everything, part of every single one of you, and she pointed around the room to each of the kids with a grin until she got to you and it shifted into that grimace she so often liked to wear. you grin right back at her and she sees nothin’ but sin and the devil in your eyes, so she decides then and there that she hates you. 

she hates you ‘cause you don’t like church and you don’t believe in her all-seeing God with a white beard and that forgiving smile, but this is  _ texas _ , warren, and you gotta remember that keepin’ up appearances is what it’s all about. go to church and bible study like a good boy and maybe when you kill a man you’ll even feel remorse. 

 

turns out you don’t, and you look at daddy’s bright blue eyes and wonder if he ever caught on to the fact you ain’t his son. 

 

daddy’s dead and you’re pretty damn confident that god ain’t real by the time you’re twenty-eight, smoking a cigarette and looking out on the world from the balcony of your apartment building in chicago. the knock at the door changes that because you open it and look into the eyes of a man you’d get on your knees for in a heartbeat, for better or worse. 

your God smiles at you and calls you “warren”, gives you a job and gets you outta the rut and down to florida. you get to work and He smiles at you and He shakes your hand and you kiss your palm softly as soon as you’re alone. 

your altar is His desk and He so graciously allows you to sit at and take in every detail down to the molecule. He is your Christ and you His disciple and by god you’d worship Him more if you could, but you’re there to do a job and you’ll do it so fuckin’ well that you’ll never go hungry again. 

the first time He really touches you beyond a handshake or a hand on your jacket - but oh,  _ what  _ a hand - is a kiss, pressing you to His altar like a goddamn sacrificial lamb and cradling your jaw with hands soft as satin. you make a little noise and He swallows it and asks for “more, warren”, so you give Him it and let Him take whatever He wants from you. 

your God, warren, isn’t quite so kind and gracious as your mothers ever was, but He’s perfect for a man as twisted and sick as you. your God is a many-faced yet smiling caricature of a man who holds loyalty and progress dear and teaches His most devout disciple these two virtues: ambition, the strive to get ahead and be  _ better _ ; and power, knowing you’re in control, in command.

worship ain’t something that comes easy for you, but you’re happy to get on your knees for Him, hands on your thighs as you gaze up at whatever fake kinda halo He’s got, ‘cause He deserves much more than what those biblical angels get. He isn’t no angel, though, if anything he’s the Devil, but He’s got you caught and you love Him like you love no other.

your Bible is nine-hundred-and-seventy-four pages of nonsensical ramblin’ that’s gospel to you, and He smiles at you when He hands you a copy and you swear blind you could kiss him there and then if you weren’t fearful of wrath and fire and brimstone, like daddy always promised if he caught you kissin’ other boys ever again. he didn’t teach you nothin’, just that you gotta learn to be more careful about where you go.

 

when your God kisses you, it feels like something alive catching light in that hairs-breadth between you, His lips hot as He unbuttons your shirt with fingers blazing with that heavenly light that scorches and leaves red marks crossin’ your chest that you’ll want to keep for days after it. when you’re shirtless in His office - your Church - He asks you to touch Him and you’re only a man, so you say  _ yes _ , miss the ‘Lord’ you so desperately wanna say at the end and press fingers inside Him that earns you a prophecy you’ll never hear again.

His prophet is called marcus this time ‘round, with brown curls and eyes to match, but he speaks His words to you with enough conviction you know without a doubt that you’re hearing it direct, and he kisses you with all the fire the other prophets had in them too.

marcus ain’t one to question why you look at him so reverently, he’s more the type to indulge you and let himself be looked at, but when you look at his eyes you don’t see that deep brown, you see the burning gold of His gaze burning into you and stripping you down to your pockmarked and razed soul for judgement.

 

jacobi isn’t a true enough disciple to see beyond marcus, but you don’t find that an issue, just try your damndest to lift him from his own personal hell and get him to do his job in a way that teaches him the things you learnt too.

turns out that, in his own way, he thinks  _ you’re  _ a god, sings your praises as he looks to you to learn and be taught and practically begs you to guide him on up to heaven on the path of light. he’s so much like you when you properly look, and different in all the other ways, but he’s charmin’ and sweet and he loves you in ways that make you feel sick if you think about it too much, like when he falls asleep with his head on your shoulder when you’re both naked in the sticky florida summer. marcus told you to take a break, so you went further south, just the two of you, and you’re getting twitchy ‘cause jacobi just ain’t a good enough replacement for Him.

he’s good enough, though, with pretty eyes and pretty lips, and scars covering him that make him shiver whenever you touch them. jacobi’s a bastard with daddy issues that are gonna last him for years, but he loves you in place of a family and if you asked him to kneel for you, any time and any place, he’d go right on ahead and do it.

 

canaveral again, and He welcomes you back with a wide grin, and He kisses you and marcus tastes like honey even though He tastes like smoke and light and heat and you let Him press you into the desk while you sing his goddamn motherfuckin’ praises and come undone under him.

“do you worship me, warren?” marcus asks, or He asks, and you can’t really tell anymore even as you feel burning tears running down your face and you reply, simply,  _ yes _ .

“good boy,” He laughs, and it is radiant and hot and warm and you swear, you blaspheme, and He just kisses your neck and tells you how devout you are while you sob, face pressed into your arms and letting Him do what He wants to do to you.

“sir-”

“so good,” He says, and His light is burning white-hot and you give yourself completely over to your God in a ritual of heat and blood and sex.

 

your God is marcus cutter, and He knows for a fact that you think this, and He knows you’re His disciple, with no problems following His teachings and scriptures and doing every single thing He asks you.

**Author's Note:**

> title from 'the parable of perfect silence' by christian wiman
> 
> i'm on tumblr @sciencematter


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